lego_star_wars_cretionsfandomcom-20200213-history
User blog:Samdudeman120/The Town Of Wikwood
The Town of Wikwood “Though I walk in the midst of trouble, you preserve my life. You stretch out your hand against the anger of my foes; with your right hand you save me.” Psalm, 138:7 “There once were two brothers, born in two different places, with two different ideas, with two different fathers. The only thing that united them was their loving mother, who always told them to look out for one another. Conflict is inevitable between brothers; it strikes at every solemn moment. It is the foundation of every fight; it is the great divide of every nation. No man shall know peace with his brother, for fear of the entire world falling apart in the place of brotherly wrath. If ever there is a man that never fought with his brother let him die early; for he knows true peace, and nothing of the world. From a dagger to the back, or a bullet to the head, let him die believing that it is possible to know a day of peace.” Sheriff Weatherby, Wikwood June 4th, 1929 Chapter 1 1865, The Civil War. The greatest fear gripped his heart, as Sgt. Sam Riken heard his sidearm go “click.” Was the sound of the devil taking him to hell, his fellow brothers in arms once told him. It was the prayer of every man to never hear that sound in his life. But, in reality, six shots never lasted a firefight. Even if there was only one opponent. But this was not merely one opponent, but one hundred. The conflict between North and South was not something personal. It was an attack on ideal, on belief. It was a time of confusion and disagreement, and it would last for a thousand years if they didn’t take the bridge, there and then. The handgun Sgt. Riken was using was a Colt Walker; The latest in firearm innovations, holding the precious six shots that a rifle could never have – unless it was one of the newer Henry guns. Sam despised those guns, and the Springfield rifles were no better. So he traded his rifle for a second revolver. He drew it now, aiming it at the tan cap that was peeking over cover and the man under that cap, aiming his rifle right at Sam. A pull of the trigger. One .44 caliber ball struck the Confederate soldier in the head, sending his cap twirling in the air. Sam Riken dropped behind cover, and began reloading his empty gun. It was a lengthy process, taking an inexperienced man an entire minute to finish. But when one carried paper cartridges it was only a question of how much time you spent on each round. Sgt Riken loaded five, then peeked over cover. Seeing as it was still safe he continued loading. One more round in his first gun, then one in his second. He holstered the second revolver, then cocked the first, and took aim at the trenches. One, two, three more shots. Three more Confederate soldiers hit the ground. Sam checked his shots. Nine left. He looked to the near-clear trench ahead. If they could take it they’d win the battlefield. Sam hopped out of his trench, and charged for the enemy trench. Jumping in, landing on both feet he started firing in the general direction of the enemy. He found his shot placement to be a success; three soldiers hit the ground before they could address the new threat. Sam hugged the wall, behind an ammo crate and began lining up the shots. Their single-shot rifles were no match for his multi-shot pistols. As they went to reload or locate a fallen comrades loaded gun Sam jumped out, ending the scavenger hunt, and taking the trench. Before he could celebrate a horse leaped overhead, the man atop of it swinging wildly with his saber. The curved steel blade glistened with blood. For a moment Sam thought it might be his, but after the man hopped off of his horse and began swinging Sam figured he wasn’t satisfied with his swing. Obviously he hadn’t done enough damage. Sam fired off two shots. The first was a solid hit on the pommel of his sword. The second was a click. Sam quickly drew his knife, as the Confederate drew his. The two locked arms, stabbing at each other’s back. Neither could land a hit; they shoved off, both trying to regain their balance. Sam cocked his arm back for a jab at the man’s neck. He parried with his knife, and punched Sam in the nose. It was probably broken. Blood started pouring from it, and the numbness was such that he couldn’t feel it. Sam began swinging wildly, in an X shaped pattern, randomizing the direction he came from each time. The enemy was not ready. He tried blocking multiple strikes, but ended up with multiple gashes. One across the chest, two on his blade-hand. Sam – having been born unbinded to one hand or the other – began tossing the knife between his left and right hand, keeping the soldier guessing at where the next strike would come from. Sam saw him guessing and double guessing his defense, looking for a week spot in Sam’s offense. He didn’t find it in time, as Sam stomped on one of the fallen planks between them. It hit the soldier in the knee, and that was all Sam needed. He threw punches and swings in so quickly that the Confederate soldier could not react to all of them. He stumbled with one final punch to the nose, and in a fit of rage charged at Sam. Sam ran backward, cocking his knife arm back for a throw. He swung and released; sending the knife tumbling through the air, and sticking dead center of the man’s chest. He stopped in his tracks, regarding the knife in his chest with a gesture of confusion; the shock of the blow hiding the pain for the moment. He looked back up, locking eyes with Sam. “Lord,” he began. But before he could finish he fell backward, dead as one could be. Victorious, Sam retrieved his knife, and called for his men to advance. But there were no men to call to. Off in the distance he could see blue silhouettes routing; running, away '' from the battlefield. He was furious. The men, under ''his ''charge were ''routing. And like the final nail in the coffin Sam heard the enemy advancing, behind him. But as he turned he discovered there were nearly two dozen confederate soldiers aiming at him. One of them, a tall man with a thick blonde mustache stepped forward, lowered his rifle. “You’ve fought valiantly, soldier. As a man should. But I’m afraid your fight is finished,” he said, in a heavy southern accent. He had a pistol, knife and rifle, the last of which was leveled at Sam’s head. Sam looked down at the men he had killed. Nine for one. At lease he had done his job. “You know who that was, soldier? That man there, that was on the horse?” Sam looked. The man was surely dead; no less than a minute, and the scavengers of war were already gathering overhead; flies and birds of varying sizes and types. “He was our commanding officer. You know who is in charge now, soldier?” Sam sighed. If that didn’t seal his fate… “Uh... You are?” He smiled. “Why, yes I am. And That officer was also my friend. I don’t like losing a friend. But, you stood and fought when your men were routing. And you beat him in a fair fight. For that, I salute you.” “So… What now?” “Well, unfortunately you won,” he began. “Your strategy of distracting us from the bridge worked rather brilliantly on General Lee. Or, perhaps this conflict was never reported to him. Either way, we couldn’t hold the bridge. We are going to Appomattox.” “We?” “Well, you owe me for killing our CO, and I can’t dishonorably shoot you for honorably ending him,” he said, gesturing between Sam and the dead officer. “So you’ll be helping us set up camp at Appomattox.” “And if I refuse?” The man grew angry, took a step over the trench to look Sam in the eye. “I can forget honor and bravery, as my last act of defiance on this battlefield. Your duel is the only reason you are alive. I don’t need a prisoner, boy. And disobedience more than warrants execution.” Sam sighed, and took in the battlefield one last time. “Alright,” he said, holding his hands out to be bound. “Why, boy. How are you going to carry all of our equipment if your hands are bound?” the officer said, arousing laughter from his men. “You’ll need all the help you can get, son.” 1873, eight years later The bustling activity within the bordered town of Wikwood was a busy sight. Stores were opening, carts and wagons rolling on by, and townsfolk and country folk alike were busily chatting away, greeting their neighbors, getting the latest gossip, and buying their needed supplies as the sun rose hazily over the dirt and gravel road leading into town square. Lawmen patrolled wearily along the boarders, looking for any break-ins through the twelve foot tall wooden fence. One such lawman, Sheriff Rep – as the town knew him – was looking specifically for bird feathers and scalps. The Natives had been here recently, and he knew it. He wanted this town to be clean of any and all signs of trouble. The native tribes weren’t all bad, but bad enough to push the new Sheriff away. It was his fourth pass along the third and final “secret” entrance into town. He came to a stop. Not a feather, scalp, tomahawk or track in sight. It was almost too clean, too good to be true. And, more worrisome, no signs of the Top-break bandits either. It’s as if they themselves were welcoming the new Sheriff. Maybe they were. But there should have been something. Something to show that they were nearby, at the very least. Sheriff Rep kicked over rocks, dead bushes, tapped the fence with the butt of his rifle. Everything was fine. Just fine. As he met his patrol partner, Deputy Connolly, they locked eyes, Connolly shaking his head. Rep copied the movement. They looked toward the fence, and the infamous “third entrance,” barred and boarded respectfully. Not a sign of use since the last time they secured it – a month prior to the present morning. “They know, Rep. It’s the only way.” “Yup,” Sheriff Rep responded. “Maybe it’s a good thing, y’know? Maybe them bandits ain’t comin’ back.” “Yeah. And maybe the cavalry will start patrollin’ for us, and allow us to get some sleep.” Deputy Connolly dipped his hat in mock shame. More of frustration.“Well I was just sayin’, Sheriff. Like maybe they’re afraid of the new guy.” “Well, I sincerely doubt that. If they’re afraid of that city dweller from New York they’ve gotta rethink their priorities!” Both men laughed, knowing full well it was an inappropriate gesture of joy in these troubling times. Deputy Connoly was about the same age and height as Rep. Twenty-six years, or so, and just an inch shy of six feet tall. Standing together they were a force to be reckoned with, weapons and ammo covering their waist and shoulders. They both wore the standard tin star on their vests, and both wore the white wide-brimmed hat that was common with Wikwood’s lawmen. They even wore the same black vest. Only difference could be found in their shirt color. Rep wore a white shirt, Connolly – or Pat, as most knew him – wore a green shirt, with the same brown pants as all the lawmen. It was a kind of theme, that all lawmen be dressed identical except by the color of their shirt, to be easily recognized by those who are in need of their service. But that, of course, led to bad men targeting the higher-ups. Which made the position of sheriff very undesirable, at times. Every man that wore the pure white shirt that the Sheriff did ended up getting shot. Even if they lived through it, they still received a bullet wound at some time in their life. Rep had received his, and it nearly buried him behind the old church. Yes, the risk of being sheriff was a very real thing, and the title alone had taken many, many lives. Half the reason they just couldn’t wait for the new sheriff of Wikwood. Chapter two, Oregon trail, Nebraska The trail was damp and warm, this season. Nature itself had an attitude, of sorts. It smiled on the living creatures in the bushes and air, welcoming all with a gentle breeze. Former Sargent of the Union Army Samson J Riken trotted along on his horse, enjoying every second of that breeze. It blew away his past, and brought in his future. With nothing but what he carried on his person – two guns, a map, Bible, knife, rope and quite a bit of money – Sam Riken had begun his journey to make a life for himself in the West. His plan was to settle down somewhere along the plains and start a ranch. It’d be hard, at first, but he had just enough money to build his house, and some money that a friend owed him that he could use to buy some cattle. His uncle had left him some, too. He called it “pocket money,” to use for drinks, entertainment and information. Sam wasn’t much of a drinker – and especially not someone who sought after “entertainment” - so he figured he’d bury a portion and use the rest for food, until he got started. The trail was not especially easy to manage, what with mountains, hills, mudslides, and roots sticking out everywhere, but it was enjoyable just the same. Birds Sam had never seen before darted from tree to tree. Whispers of tiny critters talking of the newcomer on horseback seemed to stalk him, as if the little creatures had never seen a man before. If he hadn’t known any better Sam would have assumed they were Natives, with all the stealth and cunning to know they’re nearby, but no idea of where specifically. That thought was not especially comforting. Sam and his reliable old horse Tricky had been riding the trail for an hour, until they came upon a clearing that broke the tree ling and turned into a field. A spot like this would be good, if not surrounded by trees and boulders. Sam still had a ways to go. He had to move south, now, in order to get to where his Uncle’s money was. That is, of course, if the map he was given had any truth to it. If not, Sam was headed that direction, anyway, so, no real loss. Just a major disappointment. A disappointment that would cost him dearly. He continued along his way, taking a narrow trail heading south. Should take him to no-mans-land, where his Uncle had lived. His Uncle – an old man, with a demeanor that could turn away the lowest of creatures – isolated himself after the war. He had nothing to his name but a large knife that – he claimed – carried him through the war. “Many a confederate and cut-throat have I vanquished with this knife,” he would say, when whittling away at a block of wood. “Never before have I turned so many savages into God-fearing men in all my life! Not a one died lost, my boy,” he would say. “Uncle Jack, you can’t talk that way. The war did nothing good for anybody, except color folk. That is why we fought, right? Not to kill people.” His uncle – not at all interested in the freeing of slaves – always responded the same. “Well, a lot of freedom they have! And what freedom they do have they use just to be enslaved, again. They still let people push’em around!” followed by “One good thing about’em… They certainly have humility!” Sam had never understood his uncle. He wasn’t a hater of other races or colors. But he pretended he was. He was the most respectful – and perhaps the least respectable - man alive. He defended them at every chance he got. Ultimately, that’s what killed the poor old man. He had been walking through town, after an exceptionally well-played game of poker. Saw a man abusing his slave. He hit him, then and there. He didn’t know that the man had friends. Uncle Jack was a just man, but wasn’t very wise. He left that to his brother – Sam’s father – James Riken, or Jim. Uncle Jack seemed more on the fence than anyone. Insulting colored folk and then defending them? It was something Sam likened to rain during sunshine. Sam continued down the trail. Maybe a mile to go before the first signs of civilization would appear. After that it was another two miles, in a place referred to by most as the Sown Sands; a rugged, plowed land, full of different kinds of plants, and run by a watering hole, occupied by the U.S. Cavalry. Sam was no fan of them, despite being on their side. They seemed to forget why they existed. And definitely would want in on whatever treasure Sam found. He made a mental note to stay away from them. Things certainly were different, in the West. As a native of Indiana, Sam had seen very little of what the Western world was like, despite being a part of it, from the East’s point of view. There were bandits, gunfighters, ranches and even natives. But it never felt like the real deal. It always felt like the middle of the map. But, then again, it mostly was. You had the East, the West, and then whatever you call the land in-between. But that life was fine for him, growing up. At the age of 16 he joined the Union forces, and then after the war – a mere year and a half later – He had become a prisoner. He escaped, with the help of a friend, but not without a major fee. On his own with no money - only his personal effects and a Bible - he had nowhere to go. He decided to visit the conquered states, and ended up in New York after the end of it all. He liked that life, too, for a while. But it ended quickly, the constant sounds bothering him to no end. Then, one day, he got the letter from Uncle Jack; it was his will and last words, showing the location of the map, which lead to Jack’s old homestead, South-East of the Sown Sands. So, Sam was off. He went to the maps location – the same bar his Uncle had won big at – and asked the bartender a few questions. Jack had left the map in a bottle of whiskey, coated in wax to protect it. Clever old dog. Sam could now see the first buildings and plows suggesting the Sown Sands town, and the fields just beyond. Orange and tan dirt blew across the opening to the desert-like field. In reality, it was no desert. Trees still were spread sporadically around. Some said the natives cleared the land, and mixed in foreign soils. Others said that fleeing witches from the original colonies settled here, and cursed the land when they were hunted down. Dark times, those were. Sam’s great Grandfather spoke of them in great detail, telling the stories his great grandfather had told him. Some of them – or maybe all of them – were not Witches at all. Just sick and strange people, talking about their symptoms and dreams. But, great Grandfather Buck insisted there were real Witches there. Maybe there was something to it. The town was fast approaching. Sam hoped off and walked Tricky the rest of the way, the sun setting behind them It cast an eerie red glow on the dusty ground and as Tricky kicked up the mist it only got worse. First building in town – a boarding house, by the looks of it – had the only available guard to tie Tricky to. But, he didn’t intend on staying. He held onto the reigns and led Tricky through the sleepy town of Sown Sands. Coming upon the abandon train station and neighboring post office he walked Tricky up, and set the reigns down. Sam trusted Tricky. He was a good and faithful companion, being partly responsible for Sam’s escape from Confederate captivity. Sometimes he’d wander off, but never far. And always would return in time to hit the trail again. Inside the post office there was not a soul in sight. The counter was dark on the other side. The only living thing in the room was an old clock, and even it seemed to be fast approaching its end. Sam wrung the bell at the desk and waited. On the bulletin board to his right were wanted posters, pictures of missing persons, schedules for the train. And mysterious fliers, warning of something called “Aurora.” There was a picture of a train, with a shadowed figure stepping off. A small book was held in the figure’s hand. There was an aura about the poster, warning of its arrival. Bellow the picture was the words “She’s coming.” “Can I help you, Sir?” Sam jumped, spinning around to see an old man behind the counter. He had sunken eyes, and spoke with a gravelly voice. A moment passed of pure silence. “I didn’t mean to startle you, sir.” “No, no you’re fine. I, uh was looking for a homestead, south-east of here. Owned by the late Jackson Riken?” “Oh… Jackson’s place?” “Yes. Is something wrong with that?” “Only… Well, strange men are there now. They’re looking for something. Or someone.” “How many?” “More than the bullets you got in both your guns, son.” “Cavalry?” “No. these men have no faces, and don’t carry swords or rifles.” “No faces?” Sam couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Men without faces? “Do you mean their faces were covered?” “Mmm. By something.” Sam sighed, toyed with the thought of pressing for information. But this old man seemed dead, inside and out; like Sam was only prolonging his departure from this world. A ghost of a man. “Well, thank you for your time, sir. I’ll be going now.” “Don’t thank me. What is a hundred dollars from the richest man? Time is all I have.” “Right,” Sam replied, more than a little uncomfortable. The eerie silence and pressure in the room was too much for a man to stand. “I’ll be going.” “Come back if you need anything.” Thoroughly disturbed, and wanting to get away from Sown Sands as soon as he could, Sam hopped onto Tricky and sped off, telling himself it was because of the urgency of the situation. But deep down it was fear that drove him. A fear he had never felt before. He could see Jackson’s homestead from his horse. A plume of smoke and farm house was just barely visible amongst the winding road and the hills that lined it. He got halfway down the road to the homestead, and then dismounted Tricky, climbing up the hills, and walking along the road. Tricky obediently stayed put. On the last hill, before the stretch of thirty yards, or so, between the homestead and himself, Sam knelt down, overlooking the homestead. Even from this distance he could see the men; dressed normally, except for black capes and hoods. Their faces were not visible, but that wasn’t to say that there weren’t any to be seen. And they didn’t have any visible weapons. But, that also wasn’t to say there weren’t any. Sam slid down the hill, drawing one of his guns as he banked to the left, behind the bard. He ran to it, and then slowed to a snail’s crawl, as he eased forward around the corner. The men were not speaking any language Sam knew – admittedly, he only had a short list of them – but it did sound native, and could be picked apart with time. Sam crept ever so quietly to the stable, where the men had stored their horses. All saddles had rifle mounts on them, and all but two had rifles in those mounts. Which meant there were a couple of sharpshooters nearby, probably on top of the barn. He got inside, and found the ladder leading up to the upper floor. There was a second ladder on that floor, leading to the roof. Sam crept there, as well, slowly peeking out of the trapdoor. Standing at the back of the barn roof were two men, same outfits as the rest. But these men were holding rifles. Old war rifles, like the one Sam had been deployed with. He ducked back down, as one turned to look at him. Whatever this was, it was bad. And it had the same eerie effect the post office had – that the whole town had. Sam went down both ladders, and began looking around. The crowd of eighteen men – judging by the amount of horses – seemed to focus their attention on the house’s cellar door. They all held lanterns, and their faces were all covered, completely. The clothes they wore were dark, but not the same. Some wore old suits, some wore ponchos. One wore what looked to be a priest’s clothes, white collar and all. Sam was about to leave, deciding he could find the money later, when the bone chilling shriek of one of the men on the roof filled the air. They all turned toward the sound as it registered in their ears: “INTRUDER!” Category:Blog posts